Into the Flames
by fhestia
Summary: In the aftermath of an accident, the Doctor's carer is there. Sickfic, hurt/comfort, fluff, and a hint of Whouffaldi with an injured Twelfth Doctor. Submission for the Doctor Who Hurt/Comfort Writing Challenge on Tumblr.


Clara placed one foot on a riser and paused, trying to soften the noise, eyes seeking out the Doctor. The console room was dim, quiet, the motors only a low hum as the TARDIS sat idle, somewhere in the time vortex, somewhere safe.

After a moment she saw him, sitting in the same position as the last three times she'd checked on him; cross-legged on the floor near the jump seat, hands resting palm up before him, only the tension in his shoulders to indicate he was awake.

"Hey," she said, walking toward him, keeping her voice low to meet the peaceful, contemplative atmosphere in the room.

She crouched nearby, the cup she carried rattling in its saucer as she placed it at his elbow. When he didn't respond, Clara brushed his shoulder with one finger, watching as a shudder worked its way along his arm. He turned his head toward her, expression blank, eyes glazed and dull.

"How are your hands feeling?"

He startled slightly, lifting them into his line of sight, quirking his brows as if he'd forgotten about his body until Clara reminded him with her question. The sleeves of his jumper slid down his arms and she winced, taking in the reddened, blistered skin from forearm to fingertip.

"Not as painful," he said finally, the words dropping slowly, his usual crisp enunciation blurred.

"You sure I can't bandage them for you?" she asked, not for the first time. His answer was no, always no. "Might be more comfortable."

He frowned, considering. "No need. A few more hours and the skin will be healed."

Clara nodded. He'd explained it all to her after they'd reached the safety of the TARDIS, gasping it out in short, strained bursts as he pushed her away, curling his body around his injured hands, refusing to let her look. She understood his skin's resistance to damage, the increased anabolistic activity when injured, she knew all of that but couldn't stop herself from questioning further.

"Not as painful," she said. "But it still hurts a little, doesn't it?"

"Of course it hurts," he said. "I'm not completely impervious to pain, Clara. I heal quickly but until then, yes, the burns are uncomfortable."

She lowered herself to the floor next to him, leaning a little of her weight against his shoulder, judging his receptiveness to her presence by his answering posture. He didn't try to move away but neither did he lean in. His focus was beginning to turn inward again, away from her, and she spoke to keep him present.

"You look…" she began and then trailed off when he cast a sideways glance at her. Was he expecting criticism? She smiled, hoping to communicate the sympathy she felt. "...completely knackered."

He sighed, hands making a twitching movement toward his head and Clara knew he wanted to scrub at his eyes or dig his fingers into his scalp or any of the other self-comforting gestures he used when frustrated or tired.

"The healing process uses a lot of energy," he said.

"Then you must be hungry," she reasoned. "Or thirsty."

He inclined his head, saying nothing.

"I brought you a cup of tea."

"Thoughtful," he said, flexing his fingers carefully, the only signs of distress a furrowing of his brow and a clenching of his jaw. "But pointless."

"I know," Clara said. "I'll help you."

"No." His answer was abrupt as he turned from her, as far as he could without using his arms for leverage. "I'll not have you feeding me like a wean, Clara."

"It's not like that," she said. "I'm not trying to baby you. You saved my life."

Clara's eyes lost focus, her body growing cold as the memories carried her under.

 _A thick pall of smoke clouding her vision, surrounded on every side by walls of fire, her throat constricting, lungs burning, trying to draw in enough breath to cry out, her ears filled with roaring and crackling and one vivid thought cutting through the terror,_ this is how I die. _Her knees buckling and then a bright light, not a tunnel to the afterlife but the interior of the TARDIS and the Doctor was there, his voice shouting at her to_ run, run Clara, _as held back the burning branches and she crouched and dashed past him, feeling the heat licking at her skin, sparing only one glance over her shoulder, his face contorted in agony as he turned to stumble after her._

She kneeled in front of him, cradling the cup, holding it under his chin.

"Please," she said softly. "I want to do this."

His eyes looked everywhere except at her, a sudden blush suffusing his pale cheeks. If he insisted, she'd leave but he remained quiet which she took as concession. Using one hand to support the back of his head, she rested her fingers against the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes then, hands lifting towards hers as if to take the cup from her.

"No," she said softly, shaking her head. "Let me."

She placed the rim of the cup against his mouth, tilting it slightly, holding her breath until his lips parted. She allowed herself a brief smile of satisfaction as he drank, his throat working once, twice before she felt him press backwards against her hand. She lowered the cup, watching him carefully, dabbing at an errant drop of liquid on his chin.

They stared at each other a long moment. She could read a faint plea in his eyes. The tea helped but it wasn't enough, not nearly enough and a less perceptive person, a less stubborn person would stand and walk away, leave him sitting by himself. But he was tired, so tired and Clara knew what he needed.

"Can I sit with you?" she asked. "I know you said you wanted to be alone, so you could concentrate, but-"

 _I'm worried about you. I don't want to leave you._

"I won't talk, I promise," she said.

"You can't help with this, Clara."

"How do you know," she said. "Maybe I could...lend you my strength or something."

Clara heard his incredulous snort as she inserted herself between his unyielding back and the edge of the jump seat, filling in the space but not touching him, not yet.

"It doesn't work that way," he said, craning his neck, trying to keep her in view. "It's not Star Trek. We're not going to do a mind meld."

"Perhaps not," she said. "But I know you must be sore after sitting on this hard floor for hours."

His shoulders sagged at her words, head dropping forward as all his energy seemed to leave him in a rush.

"Come on," she said, settling her hands on his arms, pulling him toward her gently. "You need to rest."

He moved slowly, hesitating for so long that Clara had to stop herself from yanking him backward, but soon he settled against her, his knees propped up, injured hands resting in his lap.

She wrapped her arms around his upper body, feeling one heartbeat under her hand, the other against her forearm, the rhythm slowing as he relaxed into her. He turned his head, pressing his nose against her neck.

"Now what?" he asked, voice slightly muffled against her.

"Now you lie still," she said. "Do what you need to do. I have you."


End file.
